Broken Crown
by LadyAsfaloth
Summary: Between Clint's quite literally royally screwed up life, Natasha's forgotten past, and an organization out for their blood, nothing is ever as simple as it seems (Medieval AU, eventual M)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: So, the idea for this sprung on me a few days ago, and since then, it's more or less exploded. This isn't really a true Medieval fic, more of the romanticised Medieval we find in literature and such.

My goal is to keep both Clint and Natasha as in character as absolutely possible; I personally can't stand AUs that butcher characterization all the same. That being said, I'm far from perfect, so any and all advice and criticism is greatly appreciated!

* * *

"Clint!"

His mother's impatient voice snapped the boy out of his thoughts, dragging him back to the day's current events.

"Meet Lord and Lady Romanov."

They didn't look any different than the usual stuffy nobles who visited his parents' lands. With a huff, Clint sank lower into his father's throne. Mother had promised this would be a special occasion when she'd refused to let him go with his brother and father yesterday to visit the Starks to the north. Why did Barney get to have all the fun? He was the oldest; he should be stuck at home, entertaining prissy lords and ladies and making alliances. It wasn't like Clint ever had to worry about ruling.

A small movement from behind the extravagant couple caught the boy's attention.

"This," Lady Barton continued, "is their daughter, Natalia."

He felt his mother watching him as he studied the girl. She was young, younger than he, scarlet curls cascading haphazardly down her back, fitted in a green velvet dress to match the hue of her eyes. And she looked just as happy to be here as the boy staring back at her.

Both Lord and Lady Romanov bowed courteously, but their daughter only crossed her arms, hardening her gaze stubbornly.

Lady Barton cleared her throat expectantly, staring impatiently at Clint. When it was obvious her son wasn't going to say anything, she spoke up, "It's an honour to have you here, my Lord and Lady. May I interest you in some tea, while we leave the children to get acquainted?"

Clint all but whined as his mother walked away, fixing him with a glare he knew translated to 'Be nice' before abandoning him with the redheaded child.

Be nice. Ha. Like that was going to happen.

Instead, he stood, traipsing out of the throne room towards a side hall, almost groaning when he heard the patter of small feet following him. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd go away.

No such luck.

"What's your name?" Natalia inquired, quickening her pace to walk alongside him.

"Clint."

"How old are you?"

"Ten."

"Oh." His unpleasant tone didn't seem to deter her. "Well, I'm five."

"That's nice."

"My mum says I have to be your friend."

"Well, she's wrong."

That shut her up for a moment, as Clint navigated the maze of hallways, eventually reaching the armory.

Beside him, Natalia let out a gasp, of surprise or joy or whatever, he didn't much care. She darted out from behind him, running her tiny hands along everything she could manage, curiosity igniting her eyes. It was only as she was reaching for a hanging broadsword that Clint hurried to her side, grasping her wrist not unkindly and pulling it back.

"Careful!" he hissed, his light brown hair falling into his face as he leaned to her eye level, "You could hurt yourself."

Her eyes met his in what seemed like shock, waiting a moment before he looked away and wriggling out of his grasp.

Against his better judgement, he left the small girl to her own devices as he retrieved what he'd come here for – his hand crafted bow he'd gotten for his tenth birthday, and a quiver of arrows.

Her silence was practically worse than her constant blabbering, Clint found, as she followed him out to the courtyard where he'd set up shooting targets the prior day. With a sigh, he turned back to her, finding her green eyes staring up at him, huge and pleading.

"Look," feeling more than slightly awkward, he scratched his neck. "I'm sorry for yelling at you, alright? I just… didn't want you to get hurt."

That seemed to do the trick, brightening her face from a pout into a childish grin, one he couldn't help but reciprocate.

"S'okay," she plopped herself onto a bale of straw behind him, making up the perimeter of the shooting lane. He felt her watching his every move as he strung his bow, testing the pull and nocking an arrow. His aim was just slightly too high, embedding an arrow in the third ring above the target. His second landed to the left of the bullseye.

Gritting his teeth, he took his time with the third, staring down the shaft, getting a feel for the wind, for his aim, narrowing his mind to just this-

Natalia's voice jarred him out of his trance, accidentally letting the arrow fly and hitting not the target, but the bale of straw propping it up. He let out an exasperated sigh, turning to face the child.

"Can I try?" she repeated, shifting in her seat anxiously, reaching out to grab the bow from his hands.

He raised his eyebrows as she fumbled with the bow, nearly larger than her entire body, but she somehow managed to knock her arrow and pull the string.

"I don't think-" his protest was lost as she loosed her arrow, hitting the target inches away from the bullseye.

This time, it was his turn to shut up.

* * *

"So." The doors had only just shut after their guests of the day left when Clint's mother turned her prying attentions to him. "What did you think of her?"

"Who?" Though he knew full well.

"Natalia."

He threw his manners, or what remained of them, aside. "She's small and annoying."

"Well, then, you've got eight years to change your mind."

That sinking feeling in his gut had been correct, then.

"She's going to be your future wife."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Apologies for the lack of length here - I sort of found myself stuck at a mental brick wall as to what else I could add to aid plot development. Ah well. Carry on.

* * *

Natalia was sad to have left so soon.

Rarely did her parents bring her along for their journeys, and when they did, she was usually forced to sit still and silent the entire visit. But this time, she'd been allowed to have some fun, and even made a new friend.

Her mum had smiled when the girl told her how much she liked Clint. He was easy to bother, his hair was funny, and he wasn't entirely too mean to her.

While the journey to Lord Barton's estate had been enjoyable, the return trip was just miserable. The farther north they went, the worse the winds became. Their home wasn't as far North as Lord Stark's (Natalia had met Lord Stark's son Tony once. She didn't like him.), but it was far enough to grow colder by the second. The little girl ended up huddled against her shaggy pony's withers as they trudged along behind her parents, pulling her scarf over her face and trying to keep as warm as possible.

She must've fallen asleep, though, for the next thing she remembered was being woken in the stables, lifted carefully by her dad off of her pony, carried into their palace and lain gently in bed.

He plants a kiss on her forehead. "Goodnight, my princess."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

* * *

Something loud stirred her from her sleep, however long later, she didn't know. It was still dark, too early for breakfast yet, but all the same she pushed her blanket back and slid out of her bed. The noises that came to her ears were unfamiliar, and that scared her. So she did the first thing that came to mind.

Following the hallway, she arrived at her parents' door, which was already open. Odd. The little girl pushed her way in, the foreign feeling of fear rising in her chest as she scurried to the bedside.

Her mother's hand was draped over the side of the bed, hanging limply. "Mum?" she reached up and tugged, letting go of her hand as soon as she felt something wet seep onto her own. Something red.

"Mum!" she shouted, this time, trying to wake her up, needing her to wake up, to protect her from this nightmare, cradle her in her lap and brush her hair while singing her sweet lullabies.

Instead, Natalia found herself being lifted into the air, a brutish hand clasping over her mouth as she attempted to scream, her kicks and flails doing nothing against her assailant as he carried her out the door, away from her mum and dad, away from everything she knew to be safe.

Whoever was holding her didn't make it far, though. They'd made their way downstairs when a blast emitted from somewhere in the room, freeing her from her captor's arms but throwing her small body back against the solid wall.

And the last Natalia knew of her life rapidly faded from her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Just a note, I know little of comic!verse, especially when it comes to comic specific characters. That being said, I know I'm probably butchering Barney's character, but for the moment he's just a minor supporting character, so I'm not too concerned.

* * *

"…are you even listening?"

Clint's eyes darted up from his breakfast plate to his mother, sitting across from him at the table. "Hm? Yeah, totally. Hanging on every word."

Her expression said otherwise.

The second she continued with her barrage of political matters, the young man turned his attention back to his meal of ham and eggs. Honestly, he was still irritated that his father and brother had, once again, left him to tend to the lands as they gallivanted around on a hunting trip in the wilderness.

"Clint…" her tone made it clear what was coming. "What am I going to do with you?"

He shrugged, shoveling in another forkful of food. "Nothing."

"You can't carry on like this. Your behavior is inexcusable! I will not have my son drinking himself to the floor every evening and sleeping with every woman he stumbles upon. You're a grown man, and a Lord, at that, you need to start acting like one."

This wasn't a new speech. In fact, he was almost certain he heard it on a bi-weekly basis at this point.

"I've never gotten any complaints."

"I know," was her deadpanned response, and quite literally. In fact, after last night's romp in the sack (Clint hadn't been aware a woman could scream so loudly in pleasure), the entire country probably knew.

His gaze hardened. "I'm not Barney, mother, and I never will be."

"That's not-" his mother paused for a sigh before going on, "and I'm not asking you to be. All I'm saying is you need to start thinking with your brain. Your _upper_ brain."

That's what the conversation always came down to: his behavior vs. his brother's. Barney was smart, calm, happily married, the perfect characteristics for a leader, and he seemed genuinely interested in it, too. Exactly what their parents wanted their sons to be.

Not that Clint resented his older brother in any way. No, quite the opposite, he was pleased that Barney took such an interest in the politics and fine print of ruling. It gave Clint the perfect excuse to not care for any of those frivolities, instead providing him the opportunity to actually enjoy life (something he had no clue how his brother actually managed).

And so, as long as brother dearest continued his prolonged desire for such things, Clint would go on living his life to the fullest.

"What he needs is the hand of a woman to set him straight." It was with that that Clarisse, Barney's wife, made her entrance, taking a seat beside Lady Barton. Just what he needed, two women who thought they knew how to run his life better than he.

"I've got plenty," he snapped, barely refraining from adding '_and some whose hands were more than adequately skilled'_.

Any reply she could've made was interrupted by the dining room doors bursting open, revealing a panting and banged up Barney. Both women were immediately on their feet, rushing to his side, holding him up as he staggered. The longer Clint analyzed him, the worse his wounds seemed. Clothes torn, cuts, scrapes, smears of blood, the most evident a slice across his forehead.

"Red Union," he managed, coughing a stream of blood as he did so. "Ambushed. Kidnapped father, up north. I don't-" His strength seemed to give way, collapsing unconscious to the floor, but Clint had heard enough anyways.

A plan had begun formulating in his head as he hastily pushed away from the table, making for the armory down the hall. Catching one of the family's guards on patrol, he grabbed the man's arm, issuing the command, "I need every able bodied knight assembled and armed as quickly as possible."

The man scurried away, leaving Clint to himself as he scavenged the armory. His bow, of course, was his weapon of choice – strong, reliable, able to take out someone before they were aware there was even a threat. Though it wasn't his strongest point, he also strapped on a longsword and, as an afterthought, two daggers and a belt of throwing knives. It may not have been often that he needed them, but when called upon, Clint was more than confident in his combat abilities.

He'd just finished fastening his gear to his horse when Lady Barton finally caught up to him.

"Clint!" she rushed to his side, placing a hand on his upper arm, which he lightly shook off as he sprung into his saddle. "You can't do this, it's a fool's errand. You'd need three times the men to face the Union on a bad day alone."

She was probably right, and maybe if he was thinking clearly, he'd grudgingly admit it. For fourteen years, the Red Union had been a looming threat to the north, ever since their acquisition of the Romanov lands following the family's sudden, tragic death. Yet they never struck out, aside from a single bout with the Starks years ago that ended in a reinforced northern border, but nothing more. Their abrupt actions seemed odd on top of alarming, all the more reason Clint had to do something. He was tired of sitting around on the sidelines.

"You're throwing your life away," his mother urged, eyes boring into his, pleading. But he wouldn't be deterred.

"The longer we wait," he argued in return, "the more father's life is put at stake. If we can attack before they're expecting, catch them off their guard-"

"You haven't the forces to even attempt such a thing!"

True. The fifty or so men Clint had managed to gather were meager, at best, but it still gave them somewhat of a fighting chance.

His mother, aware she couldn't win, let out a sigh. "Burnes Hollow. That's where Barney said your father was taken. Please, Clint," her voice caught as her hand slipped from its place upon her son's thigh, "come back alive."

The trek north was nothing short of painful. Maybe a third of the soldiers had horses; the rest had to foot the journey. It was sundown by the time Clint led his troops across the river marking the border between the Barton's land and the Union's, though the sun had long since been hidden by a thick layer of snowfall.

The men were uneasy. Horses snorted, spooking and prancing beneath their riders. Even the forest lining the path seemed unearthly still, silent, tense.

Clint unsheathed his sword uneasily as they filed their way into the open ground of Burnes' Hollow. Any traces of an earlier skirmish would, of course, be gone by now, but that didn't stop him from scouring the area sharply. Finding nothing amiss, they marched on, continuing along the road northbound.

It was completely dark when the sharp clangs of steel-on-steel disturbed the silence, from the rear of the group. Wheeling his mount, Clint turned in time to see a mass of soldiers emerging from the trees on either side, surrounding his men, weapons drawn. The symbols of red flame on their armor were easily spotted in the open, telltale Union.

"Ambush! To arms, men!"

This wasn't right. Clint had made certain to avoid all known outposts and patrolled roads. There was no way the enemy could've known which way they were coming, or that they were coming at all. Unless…

Unless they'd been sold out.

_Well, shit._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: I guess I've sort of established a rotating POV for this story? Longest chapter yet, anyways. And the 'Red Union' is a play off of the Red Room, essentially.

* * *

The crunch of snow filled the otherwise silent morning as Natasha sent her horse into a slow jig. The mare snorted in anticipation, a coiled spring ready to go, and had another foot of snow not fallen the prior evening, her rider would've been willing to let her run.

With only a tattered cloak for protection, the morning chill bit. Hard. The sun had just barely risen above the tree tops, but already Ivan had ordered the young woman to investigate the circling crows nearby. A battlefield, he'd mused, likely full of valuable items, able to be resold at the Sunday market. And knowing nothing else, Natasha had obeyed.

She actually wasn't sure what she'd call Ivan. He wasn't her father – no, fourteen years ago, she'd been rescued by Ivan's wife, Matilda, brought in to their home with only the hint of a name on her lips and a forgotten past. Or so she'd been told; she remembered little of the night she was taken in, having been a young girl at the time, dubbed with the new name of "Natasha" and immersed in a stranger's life. What had been before was a constant mystery to her, something as a child she'd dreamed of, but either her new caretakers told her the truth when they said they didn't know, or they were hiding something from her.

Though her life from that day hadn't been awful, she couldn't imagine she'd been much better off before. Matilda was kind, had treated her like her own child, sang her songs and brushed her hair, taught her basic housework. And while Natasha had loved those moments, she'd never been able to feel for the older woman as a child did her mother. It was only after Matilda's death that the young woman had learned her 'foster mother' had been unable to bear children, hence her essentially taking Natasha under her wing.

Ivan, though… While he wasn't necessarily a bad man, he wasn't a good one, either. He'd always been somewhat of a drinker, though Matilda's firm hand kept his habit manageable. Since his wife's death, however, he'd succumbed to the devil's drink, and his behavior followed suit.

All Natasha wanted was a way out. Freedom. Yet Ivan expected her to take up his wife's place on his homestead, with no intentions of letting her go. And without proper resources or knowledge at her disposal, nor a place to go, she was downright stuck.

Her horse's sudden stop jostled the young woman back to the present, the sight opening before her eyes leaving her in a mixture of horror and awe. This hadn't been a minor skirmish. Bodies, several bodies, at least seventy men and horses laid strewn across the road and surrounding forest. A light layer of snow covered the corpses, betraying the scene, leaving almost a peaceful feeling in the air.

Time to get to work.

"Stay, Rose," Natasha commanded, settling the reins on the mare's withers before sliding off, trusting her to stay put as usual. This wasn't Natasha's first time scouring bodies for goods – A practice Ivan often required of her, living so close to bandit territory along the forest – but never had she seen anything of this magnitude.

Briefly, she wondered what these men had been fighting for. Who, why, what was at stake? Though she quickly dispelled the curiosity, instead stepping over and around the dead men, shifting through the snow for anything of worth.

Pieces of armor lay thrown about, but with the insignias decorating them, they'd be near impossible to sell. Many of the swords, too, were broken or too damaged to have any significant value. The redhead was able to pocket a few coins, but not much else.

As she neared the center of the 'battlefield', something buried in the snow caught her foot – a branch, it seemed, sending up a flurry of snow as she stumbled and broke the item free of its icy covering. Upon second glance, however, it wasn't a stick; it was a bow. A finely crafted one, at that.

With perked interest, Natasha grasped the weapon, dusting off the remaining moisture to examine it more closely. It was beautiful, the ebony wood gleaming in the faint sunlight, a hawk embellished just above the grip. Experimentally, she tested the draw, pleased to find the bow slid back smoothly in her hands, no sign of wear or damage. It could certainly fetch a nice price. There were other weapons scattered around it, too, of quality make – a sword, steel stained with now frozen blood but otherwise in relatively good shape, a pair of matching daggers, curved for each hand, strapped to a nearby body of a horse, all three blades bearing the same hawk symbol as the bow.

She was about to continue her search through the next bodies when something else caught her eye: a young man lying beside the horse. Not that he was of particular interest, rather, he carried a quiver and scabbard matching the sword and bow she'd recovered.

Natasha moved quickly, efficiently, not allowing herself to look at the soldier's face as she unstrapped his gear, piling it on to the bundle. Only then did she spare a glance at him, and almost immediately, she wished she hadn't.

He was clearly young, a sharp contrast to the battle worn and aged men she'd already picked through. His clothing was nicer, too, though aside from the purple velvet cloak, nothing stood out extremely. Perhaps he'd been the leader of the band. Whoever he was, he'd been a fool. Everyone knew not to oppose the Union and expect to come out alive. The scene before her proved solid evidence as to why.

It was then, as she analyzed the man, that a small movement caught her eye.

_Was that…?_

Again, his chest rose and fell in a labored, shallow breath. He was alive.

Setting her treasures aside, Natasha crouched beside him, placing her fingers on his neck. Sure enough, she felt a pulse, weak, but beating.

Which then struck her with a moral dilemma.

She should leave him here. A large wound slashed across his chest, dried blood smeared on his torso. Who knows how long he'd been out here, slowly bleeding and freezing to death? He was as good as gone. It wasn't like she could do much for him, nor explain to Ivan what she'd done.

Why, then, did she find herself gingerly looping her arms around his chest and hefting his limp body to the best of her ability, dragging him across the road to the treeline where she'd left her horse?

* * *

The journey back to Ivan's house had been difficult, to say the least. No way had Natasha been about to abandon her stash, but between the unconscious man and the arsenal of weapons, there'd been no room for her to sit astride her mare as well.

It must've been around noon when the young woman arrived back at Ivan's cottage. Thankfully, he was nowhere to be found, leaving her to escort her cargo into the barn out back unseen.

And not for the first time that morning, she asked herself just what the hell she thought she was doing.

She unloaded her findings first, stashing the man's gear behind a haystack on second thought before setting the rest aside for Ivan. The money, too, she kept for herself, to add to her growing funds buried in the empty barn stall.

Leading Rose into the empty stall, she carefully slid the man off the horse's back, staggering under his sudden weight falling on her as she laid him down in the straw as smoothly as she could manage.

Only after she'd finished untacking and caring for her horse did she turn her attentions back to the more urgent matter of the wounded man in the neighboring stall.

He was still breathing. Good. She supposed a decent start would be to tend to his wounds, however well she could figure to do so. Kneeling beside him, she pulled out a small knife from her boot and cut her way through the remnants of his bloodied, flannel shirt, tugging it off to reveal the worst of his wounds.

The cut was shallow; she suspected it looked worse than it actually was, stretching from his right shoulder down across his abdomen. It would need to be cleaned, and likely stitched, too.

Within minutes, she'd made a trip to Ivan's house and back, retrieving a pot of boiled water, as well as some spare fabric, her needle and thread, and as many extra blankets as she could scavenge. She began dabbing his chest with a wet rag, surprisingly pleased to see the colour returning to his skin with the hot water. Just as she'd suspected, the gash was more or less superficial. His worst wound was actually a knock to his head, which she figured had probably been the reason for his unconsciousness over any other factors. She stitched the wound next, thankful for once of her near nonexistent but still feasible sewing skills, ignoring his sharper intakes of breath as her needle pierced his flesh. Good, then, he was coming to, or something. Finally, she wrapped his torso as neatly as possible, given that he was unconscious and limp weight, dragging him onto a makeshift bed of lain out blankets and covering him with another. It would be comfier than just the straw, at least.

Usually, the empty stall served as Natasha's room, she'd preferred the company of horses to that of Ivan ever since Matilda's death. She settled upon her own 'bed' of blankets, pulling one up to wrap around her.

Now, there was nothing left to do but wait.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Man, this chapter was being bitchy this morning, it did NOT want to be written. Not sure how I managed to pull through and finish it in half an hour. Welp.

Also, thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, and favourited! That's a crazy inspirational motive for me, and I'm glad you guys are liking this so far. Here's to hoping I don't let any of you down.

* * *

The first thing he felt is warmth.

Well, not spectacularly warm, anyways, but it's a sign he's not dead. Surprisingly. He couldn't recall much of what had happened. There'd been an ambush, someone must've sold them out or something. He'd taken out at least four attackers before something had knocked him cold. Which led to the question… Where was he?

Slowly, Clint pried open his eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness of wherever he was. Wooden rafters met his view, and with the accompanying snort of a horse, he could assume he was in a barn of some sort.

A lantern sat in the middle of the stall area he'd been sleeping in, letting off a dim light, just enough to make out his surroundings. Nothing truly remarkable, he supposed as he sat up, wincing in pain as he did so. Leaning back against the wall, he ran his hands down his chest in quick assessment, finding crudely wrapped bandages encasing his torso. Someone had had the thought to take care of him, kindly enough. And glancing across the stall, he got a fairly good idea of who that someone was.

The lantern's light cast a soft glow across her skin, painting a halo around her short, fiery curls as she lay sleeping. She looked fairly young, maybe about his age, maybe less, both innocence and beauty etched into her features. Clint hadn't meant to stare, yet he caught himself doing just that.

And that was when she woke up.

Immediately, she shot into a sitting position, green eyes locked with his, pulling a blanket up with her to cover the nightgown she slept in. They sat like that, whether for seconds or minutes, he wasn't sure.

Seeing as she wasn't going to, Clint took the initiative to speak first. "So, uh, thanks, for this," he motioned to the bandaged wound on his body, "assuming this was your work, of course."

"Yes, it was," her eyes followed the motion of his hands briefly before returning back to his gaze.

"Might I ask where we are?"

"A barn, what does it look like?"

She had some spirit, then. Despite himself, Clint offered her a smile. "How did I get here, anyways?"

"I dragged you through a battlefield onto my horse and marched you back, all by myself." She seemed almost… proud? Oddly enough.

"Why did you do it?"

"Does it matter?!" she snapped, hostility suddenly rising in her voice. "You're alive, you should be happy enough with that."

"Oh, believe me, I am." He hastily changed the topic. "Name's Clint. Yours?"

She hesitated a moment before answering. "Natasha."

"Well, then, milady-"

"Don't call me that."

"Alright… Natasha. It seems I'm in your debt, then." It occurred to him that his weapons were nowhere to be found. "Did you happen to salvage any of my things, while you were at it?"

"I did."

"Can I have them back?"

"No."

"What, am I being held prisoner now?"

Her mouth moved in what could barely be referred to as a smile. "No, but all the same, I don't know that I could trust you with them."

"Fair enough." He wouldn't press his luck; so far, she'd done much more than necessary for him, for which he was grateful. All the same, he wasn't about to reveal his family name, not yet. While Natasha seemed innocent enough, he couldn't be sure he wasn't being held captive, that the young woman wasn't working for somebody to pry information out of him, all with the false pretense of kindness.

Which left him wondering. "So… What now?"

"Now…" she glanced through the window in the barn loft, revealing the night sky, though what she was looking for, he didn't know. "It's probably about time to redress your wound."

Without waiting for his consent, she stood, exiting the stall and reappearing moments later with more rags and a jar of something. She knelt beside him, close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin as she began unwrapping his soiled bandage.

As soon as they were off, Natasha pushed Clint onto his back, reaching for a jar and dipping her fingers in, reemerging with a glob of some sort of cream.

"Healing ointment," she supplied; he must've had a confused look on his face. "I use it when my horse injures herself, seems to be working fine for you." Gently, she began massaging the salve into his skin, careful to avoid anywhere too tender. The feel of her hands on his chest, warm and soothing, sent his thoughts directly south. He couldn't help it; he was only human.

"You've got good hands," he smirked as she helped him back into a sitting position, having to lean in close to wrap the bandages around his torso. "Can you do anything else with them?"

Without warning, she slapped him across the cheek, enough to sting but not to bruise. Well, _that _was a first. Never before had a woman refused his comings, and if he were a lesser man, he might've pouted at that.

"Here," she shoved a hot tin of liquid into his hands. "Chamomile. It'll help you sleep." Fixing him with a glare as he downed the tea, she added, "And _don't_ make me regret this."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: Once again, thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, favourited, and subscribed to this! Know that you guys make my day.

Slight trigger warning here, possibly, for abuse. It's not much, and not elaborate, but I don't know the extent of how touchy people are on the subject.

* * *

The man- Clint, she corrected herself- had fallen asleep shortly after, leaving Natasha to sit guard as dawn peeked over the treetops. Eventually, though, that got tiring, so she opted instead to head to the cottage to prepare breakfast for herself and her 'guest'.

"Bring me some coffee, girl," Ivan's gruff voice greeted her as soon as she stepped foot inside. No warm welcomes or pleasantries, not that there ever had been from him. Still, begrudgingly, the young woman did as was asked, knowing full well the potential consequences should she not.

Trying to hide her wariness, she handed him the mug, turning back to the kitchen before his voice stopped her.

"It's cold."

It wasn't, the kettle had been off the fire but still plenty warm when she'd poured it.

"I said, it's cold."

Slowly, she turned to face him, clenching her fists as she met his cold gaze.

"What're you gonna do 'bout it, girl?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "I think you're capable of getting your own damn coffee."

In an instant, he was up, backhanding her across the face with enough force that it sent her head reeling.

"You will not speak to me in that manner again. Is that clear?" His voice was icily low, standing just inches from Natasha as she regained her composure, not giving him the satisfaction of reaching up to hold her wound. The scent of alcohol was wafting off of him in waves.

She didn't respond, not now, instead turning and striding out the door, grabbing a loaf of bread on her way.

She'd eaten her way through half the loaf by the time Clint stirred awake. She watched him, more with curiosity now than mistrust, as he slowly sat up, giving an extravagant stretch of his back.

"Morning," he half sighed, half groaned, as he rolled each of his shoulders and neck in turn.

Natasha tossed the remainder of the bread to him. "Stiff sleep?"

He smiled. "A bit." It was then that he glanced over at her, his eyes falling on her now swollen cheek with a frown of concern.

She could tell he wanted to ask, wanted to know, though why was beyond her. But he held his tongue, devouring his meager breakfast instead.

"So, Natasha." It was Clint who broke the silence, crossing his arms and leaning back against the barn wall, looking only slightly too casual. "Hope you don't mind if I pry some answers from you."

Natasha made a noncommittal sound, shrugging in response.

"We still in Union land?"

She nodded. "We are."

"You don't live here alone?"

"No."

"Are you married?"

That question caught her off guard, especially matched with his cocked head and curious eyes.

"No, I'm not," she humoured him anyways. "Why?"

"Dunno," he glanced down, picking up a piece of straw to fiddle with instead of meeting her eyes, "Woman as beautiful as you, I can't imagine why you'd choose to stay here." After a pause, he met her eyes and added, "You deserve better."

"Sometimes, it's not a matter of choice," she glanced away, unsure of how to respond to his impromptu kindness. Instead, she abruptly stood, grabbing an empty bucket and heading towards the door. "I'll get some water," she tossed over her shoulder as she slid outside.

The well wasn't far from the barn, luckily, though it still wasn't an enjoyable trek through the knee deep snow. Natasha mulled over Clint's words as she walked. He didn't know her, nor anything about her life. Why he would say that was beyond her. Yet, all the same, he was correct. There was more to life than this, a world out there of possibilities, and here she was. Stuck playing housewife to a cold and conceited man. Maybe… maybe there was a way out. As she strung her bucket down the pit, an idea nestled its way into her mind.

She had just finished pulling her bucket up when the sound of approaching hoofbeats alerted her to the arrival of two riders, cantering down the path towards the cottage.

"Ho, there!" One of the two shouted. As they got closer, Natasha was able to see they were men, cloaked, one with his hood up, yet still finely dressed, clearly people of importance somehow. She waited as they came to a stop before her.

"Good morning, m'lady," the same man greeted, his companion halting behind him, his hood drawn too far over his head to see much of his face. Still, she couldn't help but study what she could see of him, noting an unusual scar across the corner of his revealed lip.

Not waiting for her to answer, the front rider continued on. "Have you seen a man roaming around? Young lad, see here." He unrolled a scroll, displaying a crudely drawn portrait, yet all the same Natasha recognised it as Clint.

"I haven't," she lied, batting her eyes and playing the innocent, ignorant female.

He seemed to buy it well enough. "He's a criminal, wanted by Union charges. If you see him, report him immediately. He's dangerous." With that, the man wheeled his horse around and trotted off, and after a second's hesitation, his silent companion followed.

With her plan now even more mentally solidified, Natasha hefted her bucket back to the barn, setting it down in front of Clint. She retrieved him a tin cup to sip from before seating herself across from him, closer than she'd casually sat before.

"Thanks," he tipped his cup in her direction with a smile.

The young woman studied him, head tilted slightly as she watched him down his drink. He'd been nothing but gracious and kind, nothing indicative of a dangerous and hunted criminal. Plus, she had evidence he'd been lying left for dead on the battlefield, much different than a murderer on the run. That didn't mean she trusted him, though. But for right now, if she wanted to leave her life behind, she'd have to.

"Listen, Clint." He glanced up sharply; it was the first time she'd spoken his name, and clearly that meant something to him. Still, she pushed on, as much as she hated to admit it. "I can't stay here forever; I'd like to get out. But I can't do it on my own. Therefore, you," she fixed him with what she hoped was a stern gaze, "are going to help me."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**: All I'll say is this chapter was being an assbutt. And still is.

Very mild trigger warning for abuse once more. I promise, it's nothing graphic.

* * *

"My help?" It was Clint's turn to be surprised. "I don't know if you've noticed, darlin', but my abilities are somewhat lessened as of late."

"But you're not staying here forever." That much was true – he still needed to save his father, though he'd have to head back home first and gather a proper army for a full on assault. There was no hope of anything less at this point. "You could escort me to the nearest city at least. I've never been off this property that I can recall. I don't know my way around, I'd be lost within a day. But you, I assume, do."

"Fair enough." She wouldn't be much of a burden (he could think of far worse punishments, if you could call it that), and there were certainly cities she might enjoy on the way back to his lands. And he did owe her, that was certain.

"Good." With a nod, Natasha stood, close enough to extend her hand out to him. He'd assumed she'd meant to shake on it, as he gently placed his hand in hers, so it came as a surprise when she yanked him to his feet. She must've underestimated the distance; when he caught his balance on his feet, he was standing only inches away from her, painfully aware she still held his hand. The sudden closeness caught his breath, staring down into her eyes as she gazed up at him, unidentifiable emotions flickering through.

Clearing her throat, she hastily stepped away, dropping his hand in the process. "Well, then… We'll leave within the next couple days, injuries allowing." With that, she dismissed the subject entirely, leaving him to go off and do whatever it was that needed doing.

Clint couldn't help but watch Natasha as she went about her barn work, watering the horses, cleaning their stalls, scrubbing buckets. He would've offered to help, but it almost seemed as though she purposely avoided his gaze.

His eyes fell on her slightly swollen cheek, anger flaring up in his chest against his will. He didn't know a thing about her, but all the same, it wasn't right. She didn't deserve this life.

He was all but entranced, watching her graceful, easy movements as she went about her work, stray strands of her hair tucked behind her ears, pieces still falling messily into her face. Her beauty was natural, authentic, unlike the majority of the girls Clint had been around, who'd primped and thrown themselves upon his feet. No, Natasha was different, a higher class altogether, without even trying-

And she was completely uninterested, he had to remind himself. Better to squash that thought before it grew into anything larger.

She was speaking now, to her horse as she fed it, her voice calm and soothing. Silently, Clint approached the stall, leaning on the half wall beside it, unable to keep from admiring her as she sang a quiet melody to her mare, running a brush along her sleek, bay coat.

Any subtlety Clint had in the moment was lost when a second horse's head shot out in front of him, blocking his view and alerting Natasha to his presence. He found himself standing eye to eye with a large, buckskin stallion, the horse's ears flickering and nostrils flaring as he identified his intruder.

"That's Flynn," Natasha supplied, glancing up from her work as Clint held a hand out to the horse. After a few more seconds of sniffing, the stallion reached over his stall door to itch his forehead on Clint's shoulder, sending the man stumbling backwards with the force.

"Easy, big fella," he reached back to scratch at the horse's withers, earning a neck stretch and lip wiggle of enjoyment from Flynn. "He yours?"

"No, Rose is mine," she patted her mare, "Flynn belongs to Ivan."

"Ivan?"

"He… lives here. This is his property." She seemed… hesitant, almost, in saying this, yet it was a relief that she trusted Clint enough to tell him.

"Your father?"

"No!" she all but spat her response, leaving Clint to decide to drop the subject. He'd ask more later, maybe, for now turning his attention back to the stallion.

The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him to someone approaching the barn; apparently, Natasha heard it too, her eyes widening as she darted out of Rose's stall.

"Hide!" she hissed, pushing Clint into Flynn's stall, latching the door shut just as the barn door squeaked open. Luckily, Flynn had better things to do than reveal Clint's hiding space, though he still held his breath tensely.

"Need you in the house, girl," a rough voice drawled, not a hint of kindness to his tone. "Have some business that needs tendin' to."

From his hiding place, Clint heard Natasha let out a pained gasp, peeking up from over the stall wall just long enough to watch a grizzly of a man yank her along behind him from a solid grip in her hair.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N**: Thank you to all the lovely readers, subscribers, and reviewers! You guys make my day, it can't be expressed enough!

Trigger warning again for rape and abuse, still nothing explicit, but worse than the previous chapters. This is the last time, though, I promise!

Also, I'm taking slight liberties with their clothing. I know it's not medieval accurate, but hey, this is loosely medieval based. And I can't imagine Clint in frilly silky royalty clothing any more than I can see Natasha wearing a peasant dress.

* * *

Ivan was drunk – moreso than usual, Natasha could tell, by the way he threw her to the floor the second he stepped foot inside.

"'m gunna have to teach ya some respect, girl," the man slurred, grabbing her once more and slamming her petite frame against the wall. Like this, in a sheer battle of size and strength, she was helpless, his hunkering form far outweighing her own as he held her on the wall with one hand, the other snaking down to tug her blouse free from her slacks. And with a sinking feeling in her gut, she knew exactly where this was going.

It wasn't the first time Ivan had forced himself upon her, rather, the third. The first time, they had just finished burning Matilda's body, a somber, lonely ceremony. Natasha had been younger then, and taken by surprise when Ivan attacked her, too scared to fight back. The second time, he'd insisted it was her punishment as well as her duty, and when she'd tried to protest, he'd broken her nose and sprained her ankle. It was an experience she hadn't wanted to ever face again.

And now, she was.

But maybe not.

In the past, she'd been stuck, no way out and nothing to do, no logical means of defense. But now, she had something. She had a plan, a goal in life, an escape. And damn if she wasn't ready to leave this sorry excuse for a life behind.

Just as Ivan reached a hand to slide inside her pants, Natasha brought her knee up sharply, eliciting a groan of pain as it connected with his crotch. He let go of her to crouch in pain, giving her a moment of opportunity to slip away, pulling out the knife she kept sheathed in her boot as she did so.

Ivan straightened, catching her eye, gaze flickering to the blade, then back to her. Never had she seen him so angry before, and if she hadn't been so determined, she might've allowed fear to creep into her brain.

Though she'd put significant space between them, the man still lunged for her, an enraged roar escaping his lips, but in his drunken stupor, he knocked into a chair, throwing himself off balance long enough for Natasha to make her move.

She couldn't describe it, the feel of her blade sinking into his flesh, almost an awful sensation. Blood covered his chest as she withdrew her knife, watching him collapse to the ground, still alive, but not for long.

"This-" the dying man coughed, blood spatting out of his lips, "This is how you would repay me, girl? After all I've done for you? You ungrateful little bitch."

Any remorse she might've felt was gone in that instant. She knelt beside him, holding her knife steady in her left hand.

"You've done nothing for me," she all but spat, slicing a sharp, definitive cut across his neck, ending the man's life once and for all.

When Natasha returned to the barn, she found Clint furiously rummaging through one of the tack chests, the other already open, which she presumed he'd sorted through first.

He glanced up sharply as she entered, a look of pure relief washing over his face, the strength of his gaze both startling her and filling her with some unidentifiable emotion.

"Natasha!" In an instant, he was on his feet, rushing towards her, stopping close enough to grasp both of her arms gently. "Are you okay?"

Her breath caught at his proximity, his grey eyes boring into hers, speaking a thousand words she didn't understand in one expression. He must've realised he was holding her then, as he let go and drew himself away hastily, though not far.

"I'm fine," she sighed, chastising herself for letting him catch her off guard. "Looking for something?"

"Yeah," he briefly glanced away before meeting her eyes once more. "My weapons. Listen, I know it's none of my business-"

"Damn right, it isn't."

"-but I wasn't just going to sit back and let someone do god knows what to you!"

"You were worried about me?"

He didn't respond to that, but didn't look away, either.

"Well, Clint, you know what? I don't need a knight in shining armor. I can take care of myself just fine."

Something in his gaze didn't seem to believe her, but thankfully, he dropped the subject.

"Here." She tossed him a shirt, a plain, black, short sleeved shirt she'd snagged from inside; it was too small to have been Ivan's, honestly she wasn't sure where it had come from. "You're going to need that. Are you well enough to ride?"

"I think so," he tugged on the shirt. "Why?"

"Because we're leaving."

Striding across the barn, Natasha first uncovered his weapons from where she'd buried them in the hay. She then dug up the money she'd hidden for safekeeping, tucking it into a small coin purse, then lastly grabbing her horse's saddle and bridle.

"Get Flynn tacked up," she ordered Clint, who'd since strapped on his weapons, "he's yours for the time being."

Within minutes, the two were geared up and ready to go. The sun was just beginning to set as they mounted their horses, but before they left, Natasha had something she needed to do.

Turning towards the cottage, she took one final look at the place she'd once called her home, before pulling out the match she'd tucked behind her ear, lighting it using the pommel of her saddle, and deftly tossing it. She watched as the flames took hold of the building before wheeling her uneasy mare away, letting her childhood nightmares burn away as she and Clint cantered off towards a new day.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N**: Sorry about the delay, this week has been somewhat crazy!

* * *

By the time the two stopped their horses for a rest, the sun had all but disappeared from the sky, the last rays of light still lingering through the trees.

"So," Clint hopped off the stallion, intending to stretch his legs for a moment as Natasha did the same, "you mind telling me what just happened?"

The young woman hardened her gaze, her expression guarded as she answered, "Ivan – the man you saw – tried to rape me. So I stabbed him."

That shut him up, though he'd already suspected something of the sort, though not nearly that drastic. He leaned back against the trunk of a nearby tree with a sigh. "Nat, I'm-"

"Don't." A fire ignited in her eyes as she cut him off, one that should've scared the shit out of him, yet the reaction he felt was quite the opposite. "I don't want your pity."

He regarded her with a newfound swell of admiration, seeing her for the first time as not just the poor farm girl who'd dragged his sorry ass away from death but as a woman, more than that, a caged spirit, beautiful, unruly, trapped by the confines of her life. And now, he wanted nothing more than to set her free.

"Was he your father?"

"No!" she all but spat, leaving Clint to decide to change the subject.

"What's your plan now?"

She seemed to falter a bit at that. "My… plan?"

"You're free to go wherever you please now," he crossed his arms, studying her.

"I…"

"You don't have any idea, do you?"

"Of course I do!" she snapped, her eyes narrowing in anger.

"Mhm…" still leaning against the tree, he smiled smugly at her, "face it, babe, you don't have a clue what you're doing." It was a bad move, he knew, but more often than not his cockiness overrode his common sense.

"If that's what you think, then fine." Approaching her horse, she mounted in a smooth swing, pulling her hard to the opposite direction from which they came. "So long, whoever you are," she tossed over her shoulder.

He couldn't help but call out to her retreating form, "And when you decide to change your mind, I'll be at the inn at the crossroads!"

Natasha was a grown woman. In no way was she Clint's obligation; he hardly knew her, had barely met her a couple of days ago. Why, then, as he mounted his horse and spurred him off towards the crossroad inn, did he feel like he was making one of the worst decision in his life?

By the time Clint arrived at the inn, darkness had completely fallen around him. He'd stayed here as a child with his father on one of his business travels, though not any time recently, meaning more likely than not he'd be able to get in unrecognized.

Luckily, he'd had his coinpurse on him when he left his estate, enough to pay for a room and a stall for the evening with some left over.

After seeing that Flynn was properly put away for the night, Clint trudged back inside, stomping snow off his boots, a gust of warmth and noise greeting him as he opened the door to the inn.

It wasn't overly busy, maybe ten to twenty people converged in the lobby, a fireplace situated on one side of the room and a bar on the other. It was the latter that caught his interest, as the young man waded across the room to take a seat at the counter, tossing a coin to the server and accepting a mug of ale.

Not surprisingly, his thoughts soon drifted back to Natasha. Where was she? Would she be alright? She had never been his responsibility, so why did he still feel guilty? Maybe tomorrow he'd try to track her down-

And do what, exactly? She'd been looking for a new life; he should just let her go and find it on her own.

"Hey, honey," a woman's sultry voice dragged Clint out of his tormented mind, drawing his attention to a buxom blonde leaning on the counter beside him. "Handsome man like you, looked like you could use a little company. Why so lonely?" She leaned closer to him, the low hem of her dress giving a full view of her cleavage.

To his surprise, Clint found himself automatically turning back to his glass, muttering, "Not interested, woman."

"Suit yourself," she left him then, probably to go off finding another man to offer her services.

What was wrong with him? Not even a week ago, he'd have jumped at the chance, screwing her senseless without bothering to ask for a name. And now, he found himself thinking once again of the fiery redhead who'd saved his life.

Maybe more alcohol would help him forget.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**: Longest chapter yet! Sorry for the delay, finals and all caught up to me. Should be fairly smooth sailing from here on out, save for college apps and all that fun. But you guys don't want to hear about my life.

Wrote most of this between 11-1 at night, so I apologize for any sloppiness, and thanks to my beta reader as always, as well as a HUGE thank you to all the readers and reviewers out there!

(Yes, I know tying your horse to anything, especially a tree, is a bad idea. But I'm allowed to cut corners for the sake of the story so shhh)

* * *

Couldn't make it on her own?

Who the hell was he to say that?

Clint hardly knew her. He didn't have any basis to say anything about her.

Except… He was right.

Natasha really didn't have a clue what she was doing.

All she'd ever focused on was getting out, being free; the details after hadn't seemed important. Until now, anyways.

Now, she was riding through a forest, the last rays of light sinking below the treetops, only the crunch of snow under Rose's hooves to keep her company, without any sense of where she was going.

She sighed. Part of her said to turn around, go find Clint and-

And what? The only thing she knew about him was the fact he was apparently a wanted criminal, that alone should've been a clear cut warning. Yet… She couldn't help but recall how just hours ago, he'd all but admitted he'd been worried about her, actually _cared _about her, for whatever reason.

No use dwelling on that anymore. Natasha was on her own now; she and Clint would've parted ways sooner or later regardless, better she get used to being on her own. Which started with figuring out where she was going.

By some stroke of dumb luck, the young woman eventually stumbled upon what seemed to be a well traveled road, judging by the finely kept track and the lanterns illuminating the path, hanging every furlong or so. Well, it was a step in the right direction, at least.

She turned down the tree lined road, grateful for the provided light during the dark of the night. With the moon obscured by clouds, she would've had a hell of a time navigating in the dark. She knew she'd also need sleep at some point, but for now, her utmost priority was finding some sort of civilization.

The rapidly approaching sound of hoofbeats alerted Natasha to the fast approach of riders from behind, and after a second's hesitation, she quickly spurred her horse off the road, into the shrouded cover of trees. Just in time, too; from her cover, she could make out four riders, two approaching from either direction, all coming to a stop nearly directly in front of where she'd been riding.

"My lord-" one of the northward approaching riders began, but was quickly hushed by another opposite.

"Quiet!" the other man hissed; with a start, Natasha realized she recognized him to be the man who'd questioned her about Clint. Sure enough, his companion was none other than the hooded man who'd accompanied him. The two newcomers weren't nearly as well to do as the others, their tack and clothing all significantly poorer in guise, yet each was impressively armed.

"You never know who may be listening," the hooded man's assistant finished, or, at least, she assumed assistant. While he seemed to be doing most of the talking, the other had an air of superiority about him. Natasha was confident enough in her ability to read people to sum as much up.

"We've found him," the second lowly rider spoke now, "alive."

This seemed to catch the cloaked man's interest, as he immediately sat up straight, yet still said nothing.

"Is he alone?"

"It appears so, but we couldn't tell for sure. His clothing is fresh, and he has a horse, it's possible he may be receiving help. But when we saw him at the crossroads inn, it didn't look as though he had any sort of companion."

Clint. They were talking about Clint. Evidently, he was more important than he'd let on, whether he be an actual person of worth, or the criminal these men claimed. But somehow, Natasha found herself unwilling to accept the fact that the man who had been so kind and gracious to her was anything near what they seemed to think.

"I'm not sure if it's relevant," the first man spoke again, "but in the village you searched earlier, one of the residences burned down. When we got there, the barn was empty but scattered, and the redheaded girl was nowhere to be found."

"Are you suggesting there's a connection?"

"I have no proof of it, but for the time being it may be best to assume."

"Very well. Now what should be done of the boy?"

"Kill him." It was the first time she'd heard the hooded man speak, and even his voice was enough to wrack chills down the young woman's body. She took a surprised intake of breath at his words, hands immediately flying to her mouth once she'd realized what she'd done. And she wasn't the only one who'd heard.

The two men nearest the trees, one of the grunts and the assistant, sharply glanced her direction. The former pulled his sword, turning his mount to cautiously approach.

Natasha's options were fairly limited here. Save for the small, rusted dagger she'd tucked into her boot, she was completely unarmed. One man, she might've been able to take out, on foot. But four on horseback? She'd have no chance.

Which left her with one other plan: Run.

Wheeling Rose around, she urged the mare into a gallop through the trees, heading the direction from which the two armed men came. With startling clarity, she realized she'd already made up her mind about her next plan. She was going back to Clint. With logical reasoning, of course – it seemed she'd somehow hit these guys' radar, and they say the enemy of your enemy is your friend, so to speak. Together, they'd probably stand a better chance of fleeing than alone, even if it meant she had to swallow her pride.

Though she'd somewhat of a head start, the trees were proving difficult to navigate through, two distinctive sets of hoofbeats from behind urging her forward. Veering out into the road would give her room for more speed, but at the same time, she'd be open and vulnerable. Maybe that was just a risk she'd have to take.

Checking Rose's speed momentarily, Natasha turned her horse back on to the main path, relieved to find that when she spared a glance backwards, her pursuers had fallen back quite a ways. The laboured breaths of their horses soon faded into the distance, though she didn't risk looking back nor slowing until the inn came in to view.

It was a modest building, light from the windows and single lantern on the door illuminating the surrounding darkness well enough to make out the "Crossroads Inn – All Are Welcome" sign hanging outside. Only then did Natasha give her panting horse a break, realizing the men chasing her had either fallen back too far or given up. And she wasn't naïve enough to believe the latter.

Following a path around the back revealed a small, single row shed to accommodate the guests' horses, a grizzled old man leaning back in a chair serving as the stable's guard. Sparing no time, she leapt off her horse, shoving her reins into the man's hands with a quickly commanded, "Cool her out!" before hurriedly slipping into the building.

The warmth from inside was a welcome greeting as Natasha shut the door behind her, scanning the crowded lounge for a familiar face. There were patrons sitting and eating jovially in front of a fireplace, a hallway and staircase leading to what she figured were rooms, and a crowded bar nestled in the corner. It was there that she caught sight of her target, an unexpected wave of relief rising inside as she squeezed through the guests to the man she'd came for.

He was a sharp contrast to the folks surrounding him, quietly staring down at a half empty mug of ale, sitting on a barstool. Good. He wasn't attracting any unnecessary attention to himself.

"Clint." She spoke with soft urgency, placing her hand on his arm to grab his attention.

His head whipped up, gaze flaring with unidentifiable emotions. "Natasha?"

"We've got to get out of here," she hissed, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to see some of the surrounding patrons glancing their direction with curiosity.

"What-"

"Not here."

She watched as Clint's eyes scanned the room briefly before nodding. "I've got a room, we'll talk there." Tossing a few coins on the counter, he slid from his stool, to Natasha's surprise wrapping an arm around her waist as they walked towards the back.

"Just go with it," he leaned down to whisper when she tried to pull away, his breath hot against her ear, which she blatantly tried to ignore, "it looks less suspicious." Her body decided to comply, far too easily.

They'd nearly made it to the hallway unnoticed before a clearly drunk bear of a man stepped in their path.

"Who's the lass, mate?" he bellowed, the stench of alcohol reeling from his mouth.

Clint's arm wrapped tighter, pulling Natasha further against him. "She's my fiancé." She didn't miss the way he held his chin slightly higher at that.

The drunkard's gaze raked over her body as she plastered on a grin; she nearly gave in to the urge to squirm, before he turned back to the man holding her. "Ya got a lucky catch there, don't be lettin' 'er slip away from ya!"

"Don't I know it?" Clint leaned down to press his lips lightly to the top of her head, pulling away before she could think to process it. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we've got some, er, _business _to be attending to."

"Aye, lad," the man let out a throaty chuckle with a wink, "enjoy yerself. She seems like a feisty one."

As soon as they were out of the main room, Natasha abruptly pulled away.

"What the hell was-"

She never got to finish her question, as the front door of the inn was forcefully slammed open, emitting a bang loud enough that even the rowdiest of the crowd shushed. In strode the two men who'd been chasing her prior.

"Good evening, my lords and ladies. We are currently tracking the whereabouts of two dangerous criminals. Tell me," the grunt unrolled a scroll identical to the one Natasha had seen earlier, Clint's wanted poster, "have any of you seen this man? We believe is in this area, and also being aided by a girl with very identifiable red hair."

"Shit." Grabbing Natasha's arm, Clint quickly turned down one of the corridors, testing doorknobs as he went until he found one that wasn't locked. He pushed Natasha in first, before squeezing in behind her.

It was some sort of coat closet, she figured, judging by the items hanging around them, yet it was barely big enough for the two of them. Even backed flat against the wall, she could feel Clint's body just inches from her own.

Suddenly, he pulled himself flush against her; she tensed defensively.

"Shh, Nat, it's okay," normally, she would've bristled against the nickname, but there was something about the hushed, soothing tone of his voice, or maybe the way one of his hands came up to stroke her arm lightly, that instead had her relaxing against him, "I'm just pulling some coats in front of us so we're not in plain sight. It'll be a bit cramped for a few minutes."

Even after she'd calmed down, he continued to run his hand down her arm, and she found herself subconsciously leaning in to his touch, the gentle pressure and warmth of his body against hers sending unfamiliar emotions coursing through her body.

No – what was wrong with her? All men were out for the same, empty desires, she'd learned in her pitifully few experiences, and Clint would be no different if she let her guard slip like that. It was stupid, and wrong; she needed to get a hold of herself.

But, then again, she still couldn't shake the feeling that he was different, somehow.

She didn't have long to linger on that thought, as the sound of approaching footsteps and muffled voices could be heard down the hall. The two stilled, barely daring to breathe as the closet door was pulled open.

"Nothing in here," came a man's voice after a moment, shutting the door before moving on. They waited a few seconds before letting out a mutual sigh of relief. Yet neither moved still.

By the time that Clint pulled himself away, quietly turning towards the door and creaking it open, Natasha had lost count of the amount of time they'd been holed up.

"I think it's safe," he whispered, waiting for her to follow him out before shutting the closet. "There's a back door that leads to the stables, let's focus on getting away from here before anything else."

That much could be agreed upon. Without problem, they managed to make their way out to the barn, saddling their horses (the man had apparently been kind enough to put Rose up after Natasha didn't immediately return) and riding away in silence.

It wasn't until they'd traveled for a decent amount of time (wisely, through the densely packed forest instead of on the main road) that Clint broke the silence.

"Alright, now what was _that _about?"

Natasha shook herself out of her half wakened state, letting her reins droop along her mare's withers as she answered, "I'm not entirely sure. Yesterday, two men came around asking if I'd seen you, claiming you were a dangerous criminal. I lied, told them I hadn't. Then earlier today, I saw them again on the road, along with two others who said they'd found you at the inn. Their leader ordered them to kill you, but then they found me listening. I guess now we're both outlawed."

"Thank you, for coming back." He was silent for a moment after that. "I'm not a criminal, you know. I know I can't prove it to you, and you've got nothing but my word, but I'm really not."

She found herself wanting to believe those words, yet wariness held her back. "Who are you, then?" He was clearly important to someone, for something.

"Clint Barton, youngest member of the Barton family, at your service."

Of course, she knew who the Bartons were – though their empire wasn't as strong as Asgard to the east or as expansive as the Starks to the north, they were still among the most prestigious of the royal families.

"So… you're a prince, then?"

His laugh cut through the tension like a knife. "As close as you could get, I suppose."

"And why were you leading a force against the Union? That was suicide."

"It wouldn't have been, but we were ambushed. They're holding my father hostage – why, I'm not sure. But I need to get home, get a stronger force."

"Why would these men want you dead, then?"

"Hell if I know. Maybe they had something to do with the ambush, it beats me. But whatever it is, I don't like it. Not one bit."

"Then-" Her question was interrupted by a sudden yawn, a reminder of just how exhausted she was.

She heard, more than saw, Clint dismount his horse. "Get some sleep, Natasha," his command was gentle, "I'll take first watch."

The young woman didn't argue, instead mimicking him, dismounting and untacking her horse, looping her lead around a tree next to Flynn. Clint had, in the meantime, laid out a pathetic but welcome blanket on the ground.

"Thanks," Natasha murmured, sinking down gratefully on the makeshift bed as he took a seat against a tree trunk, far enough away to give her space but close enough to jump at the sign of danger. It didn't take long for sweet slumber to overtake her.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This chapter kind of sucks. One of those situations where nothing looks right so you just have to force something onto the page.

On the plus side, though, I have the next five or six chapters planned out. And, as always, thank you to all the readers, reviewers, and followers! It's crazy, across FFN, Tumblr, and AO3, this has over 5,500 views. I don't get it, but thank you all!

* * *

Clint awoke the following morning to a rather unpleasant clonk on the head. Prying his eyes open with a groan, he soon identified his attacker: a lone apple, rolled off to the side. Behind it a ways sat a young redhead, looking all too pleased with herself for having caused his rather rude awakening.

"Morning," Natasha greeted, taking another crunch of her own fruit.

He returned the gesture with a nod and a tired grunt, before tucking in to his own makeshift breakfast. Even after half a night's sleep, his mind still hadn't come to terms with whatever the hell was going on. Alright, so some guys were out for his blood, but given that he'd attempted an assault on an enemy's fortress, that much could be explained. Though, they would've had to search the battlefield to discover his body missing in the first place… And pegging him as a criminal? Wouldn't Barney attempt to find him, somehow?

And then there was Natasha, an entirely different matter altogether. Whatever she'd been thinking when she dragged his sorry ass off of that battlefield, she'd certainly not bargained for this much. Guilt gnawed at his heart; the more he thought about it, the more he realized everything happening to her was almost entirely his fault. Now she was caught up in some sort of twisted murder plot, with no real affiliation to anything aside from the fact that she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Yet… She'd returned to him, of her own free will. She could've continued on, started the new life she'd been hoping for, and forget all about the man whose life she'd once saved. But then she'd gone and done it again, mixed herself up in the huge mess that was Clint's life when she should've just left him to his fate.

"Figured we should get moving before the sun fully rises," Natasha's voice dragged Clint from his thoughts, "unless staring blankly into the distance takes precedence."

"Oh. Right." Clint scrambled to his feet, feeding the remnants of his apple to Flynn before moving to pack their makeshift 'camp'. Within minutes, they were mounted and moving, still traveling through the uncharted forest with only the crunch of snow and breaths of horses breaking the silent morning.

"Why'd you come back?" The question surprised even Clint as it left his mouth, stirring Natasha from her reprieve.

She still hesitated a moment before answering. "Because… I guess, you were right." Vulnerability shone through her stoic expression as she caught his eye. "I'm really not sure where to go now. And I wasn't about to let you get killed, after all the effort I put in to keep you alive."

"Aw, I could've taken them," he hadn't missed the humorous undertone to her former statement, playing on it in hopes of easing the tension between them.

"I've never seen you fight."

"Well, I'm pretty good, if I do say so myself."

"You'll have to prove it."

"If that's a challenge, I accept. On my own time, that is."

The corner of her lip twitched upwards in the beginnings of a grin. Maybe all wasn't hopeless.

The sun had just begun peeking above the treetops when Clint angled their path southwards, which hadn't escaped his companion's attention.

"Hey…" he began, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck, "I was thinking, maybe… you'd consider coming back to my place?" Wait, that came out wrong. "I mean, my city- the city in the lands my family rules." By now, she was outright grinning at him, a sight he'd save to memory should it never happen again.

"I'd like that, I think," she replied, almost too softly for him to catch, "but first, I think we need to deal with evading these bastards."

She had a point. Sooner or later, they'd be forced back into the more populated areas, where their pursuers were more than likely awaiting them. Not to mention the very aware public eyes. It wasn't like they looked the part of ordinary citizens; while Clint didn't make any efforts to gain himself attention, being a Lord's son definitely garnered him some. And Natasha…

For not the first time, Clint allowed himself to sneak an admiring glance at the woman riding beside him. He'd been with a number of women in his adulthood, but not a single one of them could hold a candle to Natasha. Unlike all the others, who'd been just pretty, or sexy, or acceptable enough to pass for a one night stand, he found her to be pretty much the definition of beautiful. Red curls cascading down her back with a fiery vibrance he'd only seen once before in his life (and that was when he'd been a child, anyways, not appreciating that little girl the way he should have), hazel-green eyes with hidden depths, fair features etched onto an agile frame-

"See something you like, Barton?"

Apparently he'd been more obvious than he'd intended, if her raised eyebrow and smirk were anything to go by.

"Just, uh, your hair. It's pretty recognizable, not so great in our situation." A decent save, for somebody who'd never thought himself smooth with words.

She reached up to twirl a stray lock around a finger. "What if… you cut it? Not all the way, maybe to my shoulders or something. It might help a bit."

"You sure?"

"Well, I can't very well do it myself, now can I?" She was right, at least, it would go far enough to help them stay less noticeable.

"If you're certain… Next time we stop."

Clint Barton had never been one to call himself a barber, but all the same, he was pretty damn proud of his work. Natasha's hair now fell just above her shoulders, and he knew he was probably being sappy for even thinking it, but she seemed… Freer, somehow, as if her burdens had fallen away with every careful slice of his knife, giving her a fresh start for a new life.

If anything, it made her even more beautiful, abandoning her childhood appearance for that of the young woman she was quickly learning to be.

His aesthetic appraisal aside, the haircut also seemed to work in their favour; no one in the crowded marketplace they'd stopped at seemed to recognize them. That, or their pursuers hadn't passed through yet.

Though a visit to a public, crowded area was risky, it was unanimously agreed on that neither of them had enjoyed their rest the prior night on the cold, hard ground, with only a blanket (and hardly at that, a tattered rug might've been a better description) for protection, and that it was a necessary jeopardy to splurge on a few sleeping bags.

It was later that evening, after they'd stopped for the day somewhere in the forest, built a fire, and laid out their new bedrolls that Clint decided to clean his weapons. Which, really, he should've done immediately after the battle, though he hadn't had much of a chance up to that point.

He'd been halfway through scrubbing bits of blood off his sword when he caught sight of Natasha out of the corner of his eye. She picked up one of his fighting knives, turning it and testing its weight in her hand, taking a couple swooshes for good measure. He turned to her as she grabbed its match in her other hand, hand curved blades fitting in her grasp as though they'd been made for her.

Turning his attention back to cleaning, he tossed over his shoulder, "Those look good on you. Keep them."

He practically felt her still, probably due to surprise.

"I doubt I'd be able to do them justice."

"Sure you could." At that, he faced her once more. She had an abundance of natural balance and grace, her movements swinging easy and free; the knives would be a perfect match.

She met his gaze, slicing the air once more for emphasis with the barest hint of a smile as she simply said, "Teach me."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N**: Hey, guys! Once again, thanks for all the hits and reviews, I'm TERRIBLE at replying to things in a timely manner but I do promise I'm not intentionally ignoring anyone. Real life catches up fast, you know.

It took a lot of willpower for me to not mention the traveling bard Adam Levine and his band of merry men, I'll have you know.

And another thanks to my brain Jo, for helping (read: threatening) me through this one, and helping me come up with irrelevant synonyms and remembering what colour Clint's eyes were (no really, Renner's eyes are crazy)

* * *

"Well," Clint huffed, sounding somewhat breathless, though that was likely due to his current situation.

That situation being pinned on the ground beneath Natasha.

Smirking, she leaned lower over the man's body, sitting surprisingly comfortably (for her, at least) on his hips as she held his wrists above his head.

"Thought you said you were good at this, Barton."

"I am." His mock only fed her devious grin. "But I didn't expect you to do that."

"Funny, I seem to recall someone instructing me from day one to 'Always be prepared'."

"Didn't know your thighs were something I had to watch out for."

"Do you yield?"

He furrowed his eyebrows at her in what might've been a glare, had he not looked entirely ridiculous still attempting to pout.

"I said," she bent even further, stopping with only inches to spare between her face and his, "do you yield?"

"Fine," came his indignant response, yet for all his whining, he didn't seem at all eager for either to move.

That… wasn't a thought train Natasha wanted to pursue. Sure, Clint was an attractive guy, but she wasn't _attracted_ to him.

Maybe if she kept telling herself that, she might believe it.

"Hey, Nat?" The rumble of Clint's still breathy voice snapped her attention back to more immediate matters. "You planning on getting up anytime soon?"

"Oh." Gracelessly, she stumbled off of him, preoccupying herself with dusting off her tousled blouse and breeches. Thankfully, they'd traveled far enough south by now that the majority of the snow was absent, save for the occasional spot here or there. It'd been a week since she agreed to accompany him, and she hadn't truly regretted it for a single moment. Her days were filled with easy banter, endless journeying, and training under Clint's watchful (and clearly impressed) eyes.

And her nights were plagued by the demons of her mind.

She didn't understand it – she hadn't had nightmares for easily ten years, yet they chose to return to her now, as vivid as they'd been all that time ago.

Fire, flames, everywhere. Smoke filling her lungs with each terrified gasp. Panic sitting in her throat, thick and sour as bile. Spatters of blood coating every uncharred surface. Screams. Screams for help. Screams of pain. Something pulling, forcing, stealing her away as she was helpless to fight back.

The first night, Natasha had been awoken by an urgent jostle from Clint, his hand resting strongly on her shoulder with concern clearly etched on his face as he peered down at her. He'd retreat as soon as she sat up, careful to keep the necessary space between them, yet staying silently awake with her all the while. And though she never told and he never asked, it was enough that he lent his presence for her to get her bearings about her once more. And thus, their evenings embraced a pattern.

Tonight, however, the dreams took a drastic change.

"Tasha!"

She bolted upright, body drenched in a cold sweat and panting as the remnants of her nightmare grasped at her mind. It was only when she met the eyes of the man kneeling in front of her, his features etched with worry, that she fully returned to reality – the crescent moon providing the only light for the blackness of the night, a slight breeze rustling through the leafless branches of the trees, her bedroll and blankets wrapped around her in a disheveled heap. The snorting of a resting horse made for the only noise outside of her head.

Normally, this would be the point where Clint would take his leave, giving her the space she sought to clear her head. But tonight, he stayed rooted in place, hands anchored on each of her shoulders in a grasp, gentle enough as to caress yet firm enough as to remind her of what was real.

"Nat, are you-"

Clint's question was abruptly halted when he was met with a sudden lapful of Natasha.

What came over her, she wasn't sure exactly, except that it was a sudden and desperate need for his touch. Her body shook, breaths coming shallow and unsteady as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, nosing her way past his collar until she was pressed against nothing but the warmth of his skin. She felt Clint's arms wrap around her body a moment later - strong, secure, pulling her only slightly closer as one of his hands made soothing strokes through her hair, the other splayed against her back.

She lost count of how long they sat like that, her curled into his body, him doing his best to soothe her, but it was she that finally broke the silence.

"This one was different," she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Usually, it's a fire, and there's blood and I'm screaming for help or in pain or something, I… I don't know. But-" she broke off for a shaky sigh, "But this time, it was clear. It was new. It was worse."

"Shh, Tasha, you don't have to-"

She cut him off. "I was on the floor, naked, bruised, bleeding. I- I couldn't move. The house was on fire, and Ivan, he… was standing over you. He was speaking, to me, but I couldn't understand him, not clearly. He had a knife, and he- he made me watch as he _killed _you, Clint. Slowly. Painfully. Laughing at my pleas to stop- that only made it worse. I was helpless; I couldn't do anything but watch, I- I couldn't do a damn thing to save you. That bastard, he-" The sudden falter of her voiced brought her recount to a stop, the images now flashing too vividly in her mind as she squeezed her eyes shut once more.

Sensing her hesitation, Clint's arms wound tighter around her body, pulling her until the distance between their bodies was nonexistent, as though he could somehow protect her from the horrors of her mind.

"It was a nightmare, Tasha," he murmured, pressing a kiss against her ear without pause, "and nothing more. I'm not going anywhere, alright? It'll take more than a dead son of a bitch with a knife to take me away from you." And then he was singing, the words vaguely familiar but not important. Natasha let the soft rumble of his voice lull her off to what was this time a fitful sleep, safely tucked away in his arms.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **I know you're used to hearing it by now, but I'm SO SORRY about the delay on this. Truth be told, I was actually going to give up and just leave it to die, but the practically daily reviews, favourites, follows, etc on this, mixed with everyone's support and love, have convinced me to see it through to the best of my abilities. You guys saved this, and I hope I can make it worth your while, so thank you again so much!

Also, I think I'll work the rest of the Avengers into this story somehow, add a bit more variety and flair... we'll see what happens!

* * *

Something had changed – Clint couldn't pinpoint precisely what it was, but ever since that night when Natasha had crawled into his lap, things between them had been… different.

_Good _different.

No, scratch that.

_Bad _different.

Just about every decision he'd ever made in his entire life had ended poorly, but his sheer determination (or stupidity, perhaps, if you'd asked any of his family members) always had him hoping things would end better the next time around. And, once again, the man hadn't a single clue what he was attempting to do.

More specifically, it was the dynamic between the two that had changed – it was in Clint's nature to flirt, or so he liked to think, but up until now he hadn't made a single move on his companion since her initial shutdown in the barn. But then she had to go and throw him to the ground with her thighs and straddle him and let him hold her and caress her and press kisses to her skin and-

_Better rein those horses in before you get ahead of yourself, Barton._

Sure, Natasha was attractive; he'd have to be blind not to see that. But as they went on he started noticing other things about her – the various ways her lips would twitch, ever so subtly, that he was learning equated to her version of a smile or a smirk, the impeccable way she could raise her left eyebrow that would leave anyone feeling like a fool for opening their mouths, her deadpan sense of humour and ability to shovel out as much as she took, how she'd bite her lip every now and then when she was deep in thought, how her skin looked against the evening glow of the campfire-

And just how distracting all of this was proving to be.

"Hey, bird brain."

Clint was startled from his inner conflicts when an apple hit him square in the chest. A few feet away rode the cause of his problems, twisted in her saddle and staring at him expectantly with that expression that said she'd caught him daydreaming. They'd forgone the forest as soon as they'd traveled far enough south that they figured their 'friends' wouldn't bother tracking them, opting instead for a (not widely used) road to increase their pace a bit.

"Hey yourself," he shot back, tossing the apple back to her (and not noticing in great detail at all as her tongue darted out to catch a dribble of juice from the apple after she'd taken a bite, no).

The way she smirked, ever so slightly, told him she'd known exactly what he was looking at.

_This_, this was how they'd changed. Instead of halting his advances and pushing him away, it seemed as though Natasha was _purposefully _eliciting these responses out of him, despite the fact that she never followed up on any of them.

Which just left Clint cold and confused.

"What's so interesting that you can't stop thinking about it?" she asked, her tone sounding almost innocent enough that Clint could believe she didn't actually know what she was doing to him. _Almost._

With a defeated sigh, he admitted, "It's a woman."

"Oh?" Natasha's brows furrowed briefly, before her expression schooled back to nonchalance. "Tell me about her."

"Well… she's absolutely gorgeous-"

"Of course that's the first thing you say-"

"Do you want me to tell you, or not?" Judging by the way she surprisingly shut up, maybe she actually did want to hear this.

"As I was saying, she's beautiful, though I don't think anybody's ever told her that. If you asked me, I'd tell you she's a queen in her own right. You can tell when she's happy – she may not show it much, but her eyes light up, a brilliant shade of green that makes even the emeralds of Prince Banner's crown jealous." He stopped, having expected her to be ignoring his prattling by now, but instead he was surprised to find her gazing at him, a serious expression marring her features.

"Go on," she urged softly. As if he needed encouragement.

"I think my favourite thing is to watch her when she's sleeping, though – she's got this look of innocence you know she hasn't had for a long time, like the years hadn't been stolen from her, like she belongs in another life than the one she was given. She's fascinating, too, I'd spend hours reading her like a book, learning everything there is to know, if only she'd let me."

"Have you tried telling her any of this?"

That got a chuckle out of Clint; neither of them were oblivious enough to not know what was actually being said, but there was no harm in keeping up the charade. "No chance in hell. I'd like to keep my balls attached to my body, thank you very much. And that reminds me, I haven't even mentioned her skills in battle. Beautiful but deadly, she's got this grace to her movements that doesn't seem human. She'll just as easily stab you in the back as she will snap your neck with her bare hands, and the way she does it, she makes it look like an art form. If I didn't know any better, I'd-"

"Halt!"

Clint had been distracted enough in their conversation not to notice the men that had formed a line in front of them, blocking their road. Evidently, Natasha had been, too.

Six men, all armed and mounted. No visible emblems or other identifications decorating their armor. At their head sat a man who looked like he'd seen more jelly rolls than battles in his lifetime, though he was richly adorned.

Behind the two, four more men, nearly identical, blocked their rear escape.

Shit.

With no other immediate choices, it only took them one glance at each other to come to the unanimous decision to heed the man's orders (later, Clint might marvel on how their communication had dwindled to being able to understand the slightest expressions as though they were novels, but now wasn't really the time), stopping close enough together that their legs brushed.

"I've seen this guy before," Natasha leaned over to whisper, the leather of her saddle creaking as she shifted her weight.

Well, there went playing dumb and getting by.

"I am under orders to have the two of you arrested," fatty said, glancing over his 'captives' appraisingly.

"On what grounds?" Natasha called out, beating Clint to it.

"On the basis of…" the guy paused as he pulled a folded piece of paper from his saddlebag, beginning again as soon as he had it in front of him, "treason, arson, murder, horse theft, and kidnapping."

"And who is it that wants us?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

By then, Clint had already grasped his bow behind his back. "Then," he said, nocking an arrow and aiming in a smooth, practiced movement, "I'm afraid I can't concur with that order." Before anybody could raise the alarm, he loosed his arrow, piercing a man's armor straight in the chest. So maybe peaceful negotiations might have been a better idea, but let it be said that Clint Barton was the epitome of bad decisions.

At least, as he saw it, the odds were nine to two instead of ten to two when the rest of the men, sans chubs, came at them, weapons drawn. Then it became a free for all.

In the beginning, Clint had tried to keep Natasha in his peripheral vision, but soon the crowd was too hard to navigate and he was forced on his own to challenge four men attempting to flank him. He'd opted for his sword instead of his bow with such close quarters, and before he'd lost sight of her he'd seen Natasha grab the daggers he'd given her from their sheaths (which she'd strapped along the smooth expanse of her inner thigh, but now was definitely _not _the time to be distracted by such matters).

Somewhere during the battle, Clint felt someone grab his leg, and suddenly he was being yanked off his horse, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. It didn't phase him, though – he jumped right back into the fray, almost blindly fighting his way until the numbers around him lessoned. Soon, he could only hear heavy panting behind him, and swung his sword around for a surprise attack-

Only to be parried by a familiar knife.

How long they sat there, he didn't know, panting, staring at each other as adrenaline coursed through their veins. Something about the way Natasha looked, her eyes nearly feral, a light sheen of sweat mixed with blood and dust coating her skin, her gaze challenging and determined… he didn't think he'd ever seen anything nearly as beautiful, nor deadly.

It was Clint who broke first, bringing his blade down in a circular motion that deflected hers with the sharp ring of metal on metal.

"You okay?" he asked, more as filler than an actual question. He'd already looked her over, and aside from a small slice across her forehead, she seemed more or less fine.

"Yeah," she confirmed his analysis, hissing slightly as she touched her wound. "Let's get out of here, though, before something else goes wrong today."

That much, he could agree with.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **I'm so sorry for cutting off where I did (*coughnotreallycough*), originally this chapter was about 5,000 words long, but I wasn't happy with the latter half and that was an insane amount of words so I cut it in half. I'll get to fixing the next part soon.

Also, I've got a thing for jealousy and teasing

Which you'll soon learn if you haven't already

Ahem

Thank you all so, so much for the reviews and reads and follows and everything, especially the encouragement to continue - without you guys, this would be a pile of ashes in my brain.

Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy! I sure know I had fun with this

On another note how the hell did I get through 14 chapters and 15k words with this much sexual tension

I'll never understand

* * *

It was the evening after their skirmish on the road when Clint led them across a bridge, stopping his horse and turning to Natasha on the far side.

"Welcome to my land," he made a sweeping gesture, though it was really too dark to make anything out beyond the illumination coming from a lantern hanging on a nearby tavern. "Told you I could make it."

"Hey," she protested playfully, "I never said I doubted you."

"But you did doubt me."

"Of course."

He laughed at that, the sound coming out somewhat forced, as though he was trying to cover the mood that had crept up over them suddenly. "So… I guess that means I've fulfilled my end of our bargain."

"…Oh," was all she managed. He was right, she'd asked him to lead her out of the Union's country, and he'd done just that.

Still, he smiled at her, bittersweet but still genuine and still _him_. "What will you do now? Not that you have to tell me, just… wondering."

She hadn't really thought about it, hadn't let herself get ahead with so much uncertainty in the air. But, as much as she hated to admit it, he was right, and she'd need to do something. She could do anything that she wanted to. It was a shame, then, that the majority of her more recent desires all involved Clint. Which wasn't a train of thought she was willing to let herself consciously entertain.

"I suppose I'll have to start from the bottom, get a job somewhere… a tavern, a brothel-" that got a snort out of him- "I don't know. Maybe you could point me in the right direction."

Even the idea sent a pang through her chest – she didn't understand it, not in the least bit. Wasn't this what she'd always wanted? She'd changed, sure, but her end goal had remained the same – a new life. A better life. And now she had access to both. She should've been mentally jumping for joy,

At the prolonged silence and after a moment's thought, she added, "But that can wait until morning." The way Clint instantly perked up at that, it looked as though the weight of the world had been eased from his shoulders. She really wasn't making excuses, it was too dark and too late to travel much farther; splitting up now wouldn't make much sense. At least, that's what she reasoned with herself over the other, nagging thoughts.

"Our last night together, huh? We'd better make it special then." Without warning, Clint urged his horse forward into a trot, heading towards the aforementioned tavern and cluster of buildings behind it running along the bank of the river.

She didn't even need to think before following – maybe later, she'd worry about that, but for now she called out, "Clint, what are you-"

"It's a bed and breakfast, I used to stay here when my family traveled as a kid. Individual cabins and hot food, beats our campfire accommodations, wouldn't you say?"

Well, she couldn't really argue with that, and an actual bed sounded nice after weeks of the cold, hard ground. Not to mention that she didn't know at this point where she'd be sleeping at this time tomorrow, or where her next meal would come from. Whereas once she would've found that liberating, now the thought of being on her own- no, being without her idiotic, cocky, irritating, smartass companion, left her feeling heavy hearted. So she didn't protest, instead following him and foolishly pooling the rest of her money with his to rent one of the little cabins for the night – neither had sufficient funds to get their own, which she was surprised to find didn't bother her nearly as much as it should have.

The single room cottage was nice enough, but it was really the bed itself that looked devilishly inviting; thinking back, Natasha couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in an actual bed, as she'd always preferred the barn to Ivan's cottage.

"I'll take the floor," Clint offered, just as Natasha had begun considering their sleeping arrangements. Which wasn't exactly fair – he'd been sleeping just as poorly as she had, not to mention his injury still wasn't fully healed, but all the same he'd soon be returning to his castle or whatever the son of a Lord lived in, and she'd be… well, she didn't know. So she didn't refuse, instead nodding her thanks and plopping her meager belongings onto the mattress.

There was something hanging in the air between them, had been for nearly a week now, though tonight it seemed more prevalent. That much was obvious by the way she nearly jumped out of her skin when Clint's fingers tapped her arm.

Turning around, she found him standing far closer than she'd anticipated; one breath and she'd be practically pressed against his chest.

"I'm going to head to the lodge for some dinner, care to join me?"

"In a minute," she replied past the sudden knot in her throat. She didn't miss the slight disappointment that flashed across his face, nor the way his fingers still remained on her arm where he'd first set them. Hesitating a few seconds longer than necessary, he eventually turned away, and why her body ached at the sudden loss, she didn't know.

"Seen you soon, then." He flashed her an easy smile before slipping out the door, leaving Natasha alone to flop back on the bed with a groan of despair.

The hell was wrong with her? A month ago she hadn't even known this man, now she'd traveled across an entire country with him and even the thought of not having him by her side left her hollow. It was pathetic. She'd need to get over it. And even if, in the most remote of possibilities, if she found herself falling for him (which she didn't, just hypothetical thinking, of course), he was a noble, practically a prince at that. He probably already had an arranged marriage, something that would be beneficial for his people, not some lowly orphaned farmgirl who hadn't even a last name for herself.

Not that she was developing feelings for him.

At all.

Which didn't explain why she'd taken an extra moment to wash the travel grime off her face and comb her fingers through her hair, or slip into a dress she'd bought back when they stopped at the market. It was a simple garment, not gown length and plain black, but it had caught her eye nonetheless and something compelled her to splurge.

And judging by the appreciative looks she got as she entered the inn's lodge, it had been well worth the buy.

The place wasn't overly crowded, but it was definitely full, people milling about or seated at a long, wooden table, wenches running to and fro delivering food and mugs of ale, a small group playing lively tunes in the corner. Here, it was as though nothing bad was happening in the outside world, all the troubles having melted at the front door. And Natasha welcomed the reprise.

She felt several gazes turning on her as she strolled in. The attention… felt nice, surprisingly – she may not have been a princess, but she knew she was attractive enough to use it to her own advantage, although none of that really mattered right now – there was only one person's reaction she was looking for.

And when she finally found him, his response was nothing short of what she'd hoped.

He'd saved her a spot at the table, she noticed, sliding onto the bench seat beside him. His expression still hadn't changed, much to her amusement.

Motioning for a mug of ale, Natasha said without looking at him, "Didn't your mother ever teach you that staring is rude?"

"Maybe, but she never taught me how to behave around beautiful women."

That got a grin out of her, and as the server came by with her drink, she leaned forward to take it, giving Clint what she knew was a perfect view of her cleavage. She saw him take advantage of it out of the corner of her eye, though by the time she turned back, he was once again focused on her face. Ever the gentleman, though not for long if she could help it.

Still, she couldn't resist pushing the envelope. "See something you like, Barton?"

"Plenty," he answered, his voice softer than it had been, and there it was again, that same unidentifiable flicker in his eyes, like nothing she'd ever seen on him nor any other man.

Sure, she understood lust – she may have been eighteen but even before Ivan she'd been no stranger to sex, she could tell when she had a man's interest. And she definitely had Clint's, undivided at that. But there was something more, something… more complicated, than basic lust and desire.

Too complicated. This was their last night, and Natasha was going to spend it enjoying herself before the realities of the world caught up to either of them.

She'd been too busy staring at Clint over the rim of her mug, studying him wordlessly, that she didn't even notice someone come up beside her until their hand was on her shoulder.

Instantly, she flipped into defensive mode, whipping around and pulling her fist back – only to have her arm held back by Clint, just in the nick of time too because she'd been about to give the innocent man behind her a good left hook.

"I didn't mean to startle," the guy began, "I'd actually come to ask for a dance, if you'd be willing to join me."

Sitting back, Natasha took the guy in. He was young, younger than Clint by the looks of it, and easily the finest dressed in the establishment. Not bad looking, either. He carried himself with a sense of assuredness, and something told her that he didn't expect to be turned down, or hadn't ever, on that note.

It only took one glance back at Clint's open scowl at the man to make up her mind.

"Hopefully you're as good as you seem to think you are," she replied, standing and offering her hand to the guy, who grabbed it with a flourish and made a show of whisking her off to the open space currently being used as a dance floor. She flashed Clint an innocent grin over the guy's shoulder, and then they were off.

The young man wasn't a bad dancer, exactly, but his movements didn't mesh with his partner's, leaving Natasha to sloppily pick up the slack.

"Watch it," she growled as she felt his hand slipping lower on her waist. He opened his mouth to reply, probably a snarky comeback, but before he had the opportunity she felt the offending arm removed abruptly from her back, and turned around to find Clint all but glowering at the man.

"I suggest you do as the lady says, or get out of my sight," he growled, before dropping the man's arm, watching in satisfaction as he did so and stalked off.

"Didn't I already tell you I don't need a knight in shining armor?" Natasha teased as soon as the other man had left them.

"Never claimed to be." Stooping down in almost a bow, Clint reached out and caught Natasha's hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the top. "I was actually going to ask if I could have this dance, milady."

The feel of his lips on her skin sent a shiver of anticipation through her, and she mentally reprimanded herself before answering, "I accept, and I've told you not to call me that."

He smiled up at her, and she found herself smiling too; they must've looked completely foolish, he holding her hand as they stood in the middle of the dance floor, pointlessly grinning like the small children they never were.

Lacing his fingers with hers, Clint wrapped his other hand around her waist, stepping close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin but far enough away to give her an out. Instead, she closed the distance, pulling herself flush against him as her free hand went to rest on his shoulder. He leaned in, stubble scratching lightly across the skin of her cheek, his voice low and rough as he whispered, "Want to show them how it's done?"

Somehow, she got her voice about her enough to reply, "Lead the way."

They moved perfectly in sync to the rhythm of the band, fast but not hasty, smooth but never lagging, as effortlessly as they worked together in battle. As a noble, Clint obviously knew the steps to whatever they were doing, and though Natasha hadn't had many opportunities, dancing came to her as almost a second nature. Once she'd wondered if it had anything to do with her life before, but that was a futile thought, one she'd never have the answer to anyways.

"So what was that about?" she asked, jerking her head slightly back to the pouting man in the corner Clint had chased off, covered now by cooing women. "You making a claim or something?"

He quickly shook his head to that, only affirming her suspicions.

Smirking, she added, "Jealousy is a nice look on you."

"I'm not jealous."

"I'm sure you aren't."

"You just… you deserve better than him, Tash."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow playfully, "Better as in you?"

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but if you'd like to stroke my ego, feel free."

"I could stroke something else, if you prefer."

He looked taken aback by that, and honestly, Natasha had no idea where it came from, either. Of one thing, she was sure: she wanted him. Bad. And it terrified the shit out of her.

"Don't start anything you aren't prepared to finish," Clint warned, a darker note underlying his teasing tone. The music had slowed, leaving him to drop her hand and snake both of his arms around his waist, palms pressed flat against her back, holding but not trapping, her own coming to wrap around his neck. The position left them dangerously close, her head tilted back enough to meet his gaze. His eyes felt like they could see straight through her, just like they had on the first night after he'd awoken, though the emotions were different this time. Silently, he was asking, pleading, and he must've found the permission he needed because he was leaning down and pressing his lips against hers.

It was everything and nothing like she'd imagined, and entirely too chaste, but she closed her eyes and went with it. Kissing him felt… right, somehow, and all too soon she remembered people could see them and hastily pulled back.

He looked hurt at that, his hands quickly letting go of her. "Natasha, I-"

Pressing a finger to his lips, she silenced him before he could misinterpret further. "Why don't we take this somewhere more private?"


End file.
